La Bella Donna della Mia Mente

Oscar Wilde

My limbs are wasted with a flame,
My feet are sore with travelling,
For, calling on my Lady's name
My lips have now forgot to sing.

O Linnet in the wild-rose brake

Autumnal

Clark Ashton Smith

In all the pleasances where Love was lord,
Blossom the mournful immortelles alone;
The fallen roses crumble, and are blown,
A snow of red, about the barren sward.

By Life Tormented

By Life Tormented

By life tormented, and by cunning hope,
When my soul surrenders in its battle with them,
Day and night I press my eyelids closed